Summer Road Trip 2023, Part 1

I spent a weekend in El Paso with some dear friends, enjoying their hospitality. It almost killed me.

         (My apologies for the late publication of this newsletter. I’ve been on the road.)

         Welcome to another thrill-packed installment of Life Its Ownself! First of all, a big welcome to a big bunch of new subscribers. We have already hit my goal of getting 500 subscribers by August 27^th! The only people I could possibly be more grateful to are my current subscribers, many of whom promoted my subscription goal on your social media networks, your own Substacks, and even, I am told, at the Deep Eddy Cabaret! Thanks for the good work! Keep it up!

         Your support encourages me to write and publish regularly. All my content is free for now, but your paid subscription is a big affirmation. Please let me know how I’m doing by 1) liking, 2) subscribing, 3) sharing with others, and 4) commenting below.

         But first, your moment of Zen … I am on a road trip taking me to parts of New Mexico and southern Colorado. Monday evening I arrived in Gallup, NM, where I had to blink several times to be sure I saw it: a storm coming my way. It arrived and dumped a little bit of rain; more important, the temperatures have dropped into the mid-50s with the sunset.

(Storm sauntering into Gallup, NM, at sunset, bringing a little rain and a lovely temperature drop.)

---

Friday, August 18, 2023

         This may surprise readers who do not know me well, but your Humble Correspondent takes his writing duties very seriously and, accordingly, as the Dude in The Big Lebowski says, “adheres to a pretty strict, uh, drug, uh, regimen to keep my mind, you know, uh, limber.”

         The truth is, I am not much of a party animal. When I was growing up in San Antonio, I did my share of Nights in Old San Antonio and Oyster Bakes, but that ended when I graduated from college. In law school, I went to Carnaval Brasileiro and occasionally visited the fleshpots of Sixth Street, but that only lasted those years. I eventually realized I preferred my debauchery in small groups, and so the bar/party scene has had to get along without me.

         I mention this because I spent the weekend in El Paso with my friend Michael Wyatt and his exquisite bride Karla, and it almost killed me.

---

         Michael and I attended law school together (U.T. Law ’88, #hookem) and stayed in touch over the years. We both believed in progressive politics and public service, and our careers each reflected that. He represented Texas Rural Legal Aid, victimized farmworkers, and the county attorney’s office – the Holy Trinity of leaving the world better than you found it. Meanwhile, his bride Karla Frausto developed a reputation as the go-to interior (exterior, all the -teriors) design person in El Paso and points beyond. They’ve invited me to visit them in El Paso for years, and the constellations finally lined up last weekend.

(Michael Wyatt and I, out in the west Texas town of El Paso.)

         And so, last Thursday I headed west from Marathon. Somewhere past Van Horn, I noticed that the little “check engine” light on my dashboard had come on. Like all other drivers, my first instinct was to ignore it. However, once I was safely ensconced at chez Wyatt, I began to fret over the fact that the trip to El Paso was only the first leg of a two-week, multistate tour of the American West, and maybe I ought to get the engine checked. I went to an auto parts store (which shall remain nameless for reasons to become evident later) and, tout suite, they plugged something into my car and told me there might be something wrong with my catalytic converter.

         As every automotive enthusiast knows, the ordinary response to possible problems with your catalytic converter is to ignore it. But I was planning to cover big swaths of the American Southwest and I suddenly had an acute attack of prudence.

         When you’re in a strange town and you’ve decided that you’re uncharacteristically going to pay attention to what your car is telling you, it helps to have a guy like Michael Wyatt in your corner. In no time flat, Michael had texted his mechanic, who told us that we should take the car to a muffler shop, since they would probably know what to do with bad catalytic converters. And he recommended just the right person for the job.

         Thus, early Friday morning found us at Pepe’s Mufflers. (N.B. In pronouncing the word “MOO-fles,” – there is no “r” sound – you cannot possibly overemphasize the “moo.”) There, we met a guy, appearing to be in his 60s, whom I immediately took to be Pepe. Michael, who speaks Spanish much better than I, got a different story: he may have been Pepe once, but his son (who was not around) was the titular Pepe of the establishment now.

         Having cleared that up, we set forth our problem and our requirements: whatever had to be done had to happen that day, before Pepe’s Mufflers closed for the weekend. Pepe I, as I will now call him, promised they would get on it right away.

         Michael then went to work, which he apparently is required to do on most weekdays. He checked in later that morning and asked me if I’d heard from Pepe. (Out of an abundance of optimism, we’d both given Pepe our phone numbers.) Since we hadn’t heard, we thought it prudent to go by Pepe’s and see what progress had been made.

         A good sign: the car was up on the lift. We looked around for Pepe, who was nowhere to be found. But a young gentleman – whom I will call Pepe III, although I have no idea if he is a part of the Pepe Dynasty – found Pepe I. They relayed that the catalytic converter was in working shape but needed new oxygen sensors – “sensores de oxígeno” – to get the infernal check engine light to go off.

         Wonderful! we exclaimed in unison. Did they have the sensors? They looked at us incredulously: no, it was our job to get the sensors. The fact that we did not know we needed to get them was irrelevant.  

         Leaving aside for the moment the question of how we were supposed to divine that we needed to buy these auto parts, we headed over to an auto parts shop, where the assistant manager greeted us. During our conversation, we learned that she was originally from California and had learned how to be a mechanic from her (now deceased) father. Soon after moving to Texas, she was working on a car and went to – you guessed it! – the other auto parts store, where the men ogled her and told her that a) she did not know what she was talking about, b) she should go get her husband to look at the car, and c) if she did not have one, get a husband first, then worry about the car.

         As you might guess, this did not endear the other auto parts store to her and, just for a minute, Michael and I found ourselves commiserating about the patriarchy like a couple Barbie movie extras. Regaining our composure, we asked her about the sensores de oxigeno. Turned out she had them in stock, and soon we were on our way back to Pepe’s Mufflers. We left the sensors with one of the Pepes – I couldn’t tell who was who any more – and promised we’d be back at 5:00.

         At the appointed hour, we returned to find the sensors installed, the check engine light off, and a perfectly reasonable bill to pay. The man who took my credit card may have been, although he gave no indication and his hands were suspiciously clean, Pepe II.

         All’s well that ends well, the poet says. However, I can report to you, after the passage of a week and a thousand or so miles of road tripping, that the check engine light is back on.

         I would not want to leave you with the impression that I drove all the way to El Paso to dragoon a good friend into helping me fix my catalytic converter. No, sir. I was there to experience the best El Paso could offer, and Michael and Karla were just the people to show it to me.

         Thursday night, after a tasty libation on the balcony of their house, Michael and I went downtown and dined at ELEMI, where I had the best Brussels sprouts I’ve ever tasted, an amazing appetizer involving cucumber, and two excellent tacos. I also had my first and second Mezcal Old Fashioneds, a mixological masterpiece I’d never heard of.

(Me and the impressive collection of sotols and mezcals at ELEMI.)

         Friday night, we went to dinner at Ardovino’s Desert Crossing, which was excellent. Dining with Michael and Karla is always an adventure because they know everyone in town. Chefs and owners materialize to greet them and meet their guests. People drop by the table to say hello. Servers solicitously ask if we need more water.

(At Ardovino’s with Michael, Karla, and our friend Loretta Lopez.)

         Saturday night, we went to Chope’s in La Mesa, which combines a biker bar with a great Mexican restaurant. I had a big burrito, served by a woman who looked like a young Selena Gomez.

(With Michael and Karla in front of the biker bar. Young Selena Gomez not pictured.)

         The dinners each night were amazing, and I had an excellent breakfast each morning, and libations at every conceivable opportunity. Early for a dinner reservation? Have a drink. Waiting for the muffler shop? Have a beer. It’s the middle of the afternoon? Let’s whip something up and sit on the balcony.

         And we were just getting warmed up. Sunday morning, Karla and Michael invited some of their best friends to a brunch at their home. It was a marvelous treat for me, since I knew several of their guests from my previous lives. Everyone brought something fabulous to eat, and the 11:30 brunch finally began to wind down at 6:00 p.m. What a great group of people!

(An awesome group of ne’er-do-wells. That’s why they’re my friends.)

---

         I finally had to leave El Paso on Monday in order to get some rest. I headed north toward Albuquerque, making the obligatory stop in Hatch, then west to Gallup. More on that in a future newsletter.

---

         Your weekend reading …

         … a fascinating Texas Monthly article about the tension between conservation and sustainable development in the Hill Country;

         … The Bulwark’s Jonathan V. Last has an interesting scenario for how Donald Trump could completely sabotage the GOP presidential debate in Milwaukee next week.